


Carve Your Name into My Arm

by crickets



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-21
Updated: 2008-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crickets/pseuds/crickets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tucker loses Nora and Sam doesn't know if he'll ever find Kara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carve Your Name into My Arm

**Author's Note:**

> Words, 2250. Set between eps of the Resistance webisodes, and during Occupation. [Original Post.](http://crickets.livejournal.com/126463.html) A [vid](http://community.livejournal.com/everydamnthing/12059.html) inspired by the story.

It doesn't rain on New Caprica, not really. There are no heavy thunderstorms or thick sheets of warm, fat drops. And it's certainly nothing like those monsoon days in the mountains of Caprica after the destruction. Like everything else on this dead planet – food, warm blankets, help from the gods – it’s never enough.

Sam can smell it, thick in the air and unmistakable, long before the clouds ever darken the sky. It's days after the shooting at the temple, the dead just barely in the ground, funerals still underway, and the skies crack with thunder, lightning approaching in the distance.

He stands next to Tucker – Tucker, who is already dead and in the ground next to Nora's broken body. (And everybody knows it.) No one runs to take shelter when the storm comes down on top of them. Nicholas cries in Cally's arms, and Tyrol squeezes her hand tight. Even Ellen drops her head to Saul’s shoulder, and he puts his arm around her. The priestess sings her song, the sound stifled by the rain, and Sam thinks of Kara.

For a minute, he almost envies Duck. He doesn't have a spot of ground to mourn over, a stone to carve her name into. All he has is endless doubt and a fistful of hope that lessens every day. What Tucker has is _knowing_ – an answer. And maybe Sam wants that too, even just a little.

The rain doesn't stop.

†

It's after curfew, and Tucker's outside of Tyrol's, drunk or high or both, and Jammer wakes Sam.

"It's Duck, we gotta go man."

He's screaming obscenities, flinging clumps of wet earth at their tent, goading Tyrol to come out and face him. He hurls back, this time with a rock in his hand and throws it toward the flap. "Motherfrakker!" he shouts, and his momentum brings him to his knees, out of breath, his hands shaking.

Sam collides with Tucker from behind, and they both go tumbling to the wet ground. He motions for Jammer to check the tent. "Make sure nobody's hurt," he orders. "I'll take care of him." His knees dig at Tucker's back, pressing him into the mud. "Don't you _frakking_ move," he says, low and feral, as he positions himself more comfortably, dropping his knees to the mud at Tucker's sides, holding him down with his hands and pinning Tucker’s arms behind his back.

"It's his fault! Godsdammit!" Tucker insists, struggling against Sam's weight.

Sam leans in, his body hovering over Tucker's so that he can speak more quietly. "You keep yelling that shit out here, you're gonna get us all picked up by the NCP," he says, his mouth inches away from Tucker's ear. "Either that or one of those chrome toasters is just going to come over here and open fire. So whoever you think is to blame, whatever grudge you have, it ends now. You keep your frakking head on and your mouth shut, got it? Or we're all dead. Cally. That baby in there. All of us. And then whose fault will that be?"

Tucker closes his eyes, nodding silently, and after a moment, Sam loosens his grip and stands up, freeing him.

"Good. Now get the frak out of here."

†

There’s a boulder out by the edge of the burial ground.

Morning passes, and Tucker rocks back and forth in rain-soaked clothes. Sam watches from the open flap of his tent as the others try to talk him inside. Water pools at the threshold, no real escaping it. (And nobody’s really even trying anymore.) He watches Tucker refuse offers of warm food from Cally and the enticement of a dry game of Triad with Jammer and the guys in the community mess. Even Tyrol stops behind him and places a hand on Tucker’s shoulder, says words that Sam can’t hear. An apology? A chance for forgiveness? But Tucker doesn’t budge, just stares at the mound of dirt in front of him. Every now and then, he mouths a prayer, his fist clenched tight at the chain around his neck.

When darkness comes, Sam laces his boots, shrugs on his coat, and carries a tin of hot coffee out to the rock.

“You _trying_ to freeze to death?” he asks.

“What’s it to you?” Tucker says.

Sam chuckles, dropping his head in a nod. “Touché.” He finds a place next to Tucker, their arms and legs pressed together for lack of space.

Tucker is cold to the touch and Sam is struck with the urge to hit the man; stubborn son of a bitch is literally going to kill himself out here. Instead, he lifts the coffee to his lips and takes a slow sip, swallows deliberately, lets his hot breath rise above them.

“Resistance could use guys like you,” he says, “guys with a purpose. Those motherfrakkers owe you something, Tucker. And sitting out here in the rain isn’t gonna bring her back.” He looks at Tucker, pale and shivering and lets his hand slip toward Tucker’s, holding the cup within his reach. Tucker eyes it and finally reaches out and takes it, gulping the whole thing down quickly.

“Easy, Tiger, that’s hot,” Sam warns too late, and Tucker’s coughing and sputtering beside him.

Sam reaches over, pats his back until he stops, and then lets his hand rest there for a moment. “Tucker,” he says seriously. “You’ve got to get warm, buddy.”

†

When Tucker follows Sam inside, a fire burning in the stove of the small shelter, he doesn’t talk. He's barely said a word at all. But at least he’s inside, Sam thinks. It’s more than anybody else could do. He wants to tell Tucker that he knows what it’s like – losing someone you love. But the truth is that Kara could still be out there, and he _doesn’t_ know what it’s like, not really.

Instead, he helps Tucker out of his wet coat and shirts, strips him down to his pants, unlaces his boots and pulls off his socks, brings him a plate of hot food, and watches him eat.

When Tucker pulls Sam down beside him on the bed, his naked back to Sam, Sam doesn’t protest. He can’t help but remember the night before, outside of Tyrol’s, his lips grazing Tuckers ear, their bodies fastened together in much the same way.

Sam runs his hand down Tucker’s side and stops at the top of Tucker’s wet pants. “You should get out of these,” he whispers, fingering at the belt loop before he goes for the buckle. Tucker’s hand covers Sam’s, guiding him until Sam can feel Tucker hard beneath the wet fabric. He licks the back of Tucker’s neck and Tucker arches into it. He tastes like rain.

His fingers slide into Tucker’s pants, pulling him out with a slight jerk. Tucker moans and attempts to thrust into Sam’s hand, but Sam frees him and focuses on getting the rest of Tucker’s clothes off for better access.

He whispers into Tucker’s ear as he yanks his pants down a few inches. The fabric is wet and stubborn, but it’s good enough for now. “This won’t make it go away,” Sam says. And he knows that all too well from experience.

“I don’t care,” Tucker finally speaks. “Just. Frak, Sam, don’t stop.”

Sam smiles, tracing his tongue along the length of Tucker’s jaw, “Whatever you say.” He brings his palm to his lips and spits, knowing Tucker might be a bit raw from the exposure, and the reaches down once more, closing around the base of Tucker’s cock and sliding his hand up to the head to cover it with his slick saliva as well as he can. Tucker jerks his hips again at the sensation, and Sam begins to tug, kissing the freckles at Tucker’s shoulders as he does.

“Gods,” Tucker breathes, and Sam has a half a mind to ask him if this is the first time he’s been with a guy, but he’s hard against Tucker’s half-exposed ass, and as Tucker rocks into him, putting pressure on his cock, the question is lost in a painful moan from his lips.

Sam wants to be inside him, but he knows this is not the time, and continues to fist Tucker’s swollen dick. He flicks his tongue to the spot behind Tucker’s ear, and then there’s a muffled grunt, warm sticky fluid over his fingers and Tucker going soft in his hand.

Sam kisses Tucker’s shoulder blade as he recovers from his orgasm, and then slides off the bed and heads for the basin. He’s still hard and in need of release, but he knows that can wait until later. He looks back at Tucker who appears to have already receded into himself, lying spent and naked and just as empty as that day at Nora’s funeral.

_No_, Sam thinks. _It never makes it better._

†

In the morning, the rain stops, and Sam leaves Tucker alone in the tent before he wakes. When he comes back, Tucker’s gone, a thank-you in place of the dry clothes he left.

“You hear about Tucker?” Tyrol whispers the next night at dinner.

“What about him?” Sam says, chewing a hard piece of bread.

“Joined up with the NCP,” Tyrol says, raising his eyebrows. “Informer.”

Sam swallows, the bread scraping on its way down. “I knew he’d come around,” he says. “Just needed a little time.”

†

“Baltar will be at the graduation ceremony,” Tigh says one night underground.

“Duck’s volunteered,” Tyrol explains, his voice betraying his disapproval, and Sam’s head jerks up from the map he’s studying.

“What? Like, what we talked about?” he asks. He remembers Tigh’s words. _Suicide mission,_ he’d said. _We get a man on the inside, no chance in him coming back alive, best to take out as many of those motherfrakkers with him when he goes._

“You got a problem with that?” Tigh asks. “I already heard an earful of it from the Chief here.”

“No,” Sam says, a lie on his lips. “No. It’s... it’s what we’ve got to do.”

†

It’s late winter in New Caprica, and the dust is settled now, hard beneath their feet on the pyramid court. Sam always looks forward to this – the heat of bodies, weaving and clashing, men shedding heavy coats, working out their frustrations, a hard crash to the ground, a hand helping him up, a means to forget.

Sam sucks in a lungful of cold air and tries not to think. _It’s Tucker’s last game._ He’d try to talk him out of it, if only thought it would do any good. Besides, they’re all going to die on this rock anyway, might as well go out fighting. And his mind tells him that blowing yourself to little pieces isn’t exactly like fighting, but the soldier in him, the one that never earned any stripes in the resistance on Caprica, tells him that it’s just how things have to be, and he makes sure Tucker knows that too.

Tucker’s cheeks are flushed pink with exertion, and Sam can feel the heat in his face too, the stinging sensation of the cold air brushing his hot skin. Sam bends over, his hands on his knees, and catches his breath as he watches Tucker say goodbye to the other guys and walk off the court, sending a backwards glance his way as he goes.

Sam waits a few minutes, and then follows.

†

In Tucker’s tent, Sam pulls him down to the bed, warm bodies clashing, not unlike the way they do on the pyramid court. And maybe that’s why they spent so much time there, because it made it easier to avoid this inevitability.

“Why didn’t you talk to me?” Sam says as he yanks off Tucker’s shirt.

“What would you say?” Tucker asks, helping Sam with his belt. “Don’t go? Don’t be a hero?”

“No,” Sam says. “But I,” he falters when Tucker’s cool fingers wrap around the base of his cock. “Maybe,” he says, and then, “No. You’re right.” Sam grunts and pushes Tucker away and flips him over, bracing himself behind him.

“Sam,” Tucker hisses as Sam fits two slicked fingers inside him.

“I wanna be inside,” Sam says. “I want…” Tucker turns and kisses him. His tongue is at the roof of Sam’s mouth, and Sam has his answer. Sam turns him back around and pushes inside, fraks him slowly into the blankets, their breaths and voices rising together through the thin canvas of the tent. He reaches around and closes his hand over Tucker, working him in tugs that match his thrusts until they’re both coming and spent and trapped together in that place where they’re safe from the world, a mirage of fearlessness and bliss that never lasts quite long enough.

†

“Do you think Galactica is coming back for us?” Tucker asks from the bed as Sam dresses himself that morning.

Sam shakes his head. “No,” he says, reaches out and ruffles Tucker’s hair. “No, Tucker, I don’t.”

†

By the time Sam realizes otherwise, everything is already set into motion, and it’s too late to stop it. He stops by the tent and pockets the photograph of Nora and Tucker to take back to Galactica. He walks slowly, kicks at the dirt, and steps onto the pyramid court. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear sounds of an explosion, and as he hurtles the ball toward the goal, he swears he can smell the rain.


End file.
